Cain (38 page)

"So what kind of land does Cain need?"

He made a vague gesture. "It must be underground and near the sea for the power of salt water, which represents Hell. It must be made from hand-hewn granite to keep the conjurer close to the center of the Earth, and there must be fresh water flowing beneath it, representing the human soul. It must also be built on ground strong with copper, for magnetic effect. So, yes! This narrows the list considerably!"

"Look, Marcelle."
Soloman was growing angry. "We have to move faster on this! We have to intercept Cain before he gets to this place or we'll be fighting him on the ground, and maybe even on the night, that he's strongest."

"It will be a fiendish thing," the priest replied, scowling. "But we are
finally closing in on this mystery, I believe."

"Yeah? How close?"

Marcelle stopped pacing and stared.

"
Close enough to kill or be killed, Colonel."

***

Maggie appeared far more focused as Soloman re-entered the room. The bandage on her arm was white; the bleeding had finally stopped. She looked up with a forgiving, or a forgiven, smile and Soloman returned the same.

He felt his heart reach out and was surprised that he was so glad to see
her again after just an hour. He knew what was happening and he couldn't stop it, but then he didn’t feel any inclination to stop it, anymore. He was going to give himself to this – if Maggie would have him.

But, for now, there was business.

"We've got something," he said, reflexively grasping her hands as she reached out. "I think we've got an idea where he's going. We might even be able to intercept him before he gets there, if we're lucky."

"Where, Sol? Where's he going?"

"We ... We don't know yet," he replied, seeing the immediate rise of pain in her eyes. "Not exactly, Maggie. But we're closer. A lot closer. We might even have an answer tonight."

Soloman
didn't really know how it happened but he knew from experience that it usually happened like that. One moment they were close and excited, and next they were locked in an embrace as passionate as anything he had ever known.

He felt emotion explode in his heart, spiraling through his arms as they tightened around her figure. Kisses were exchanged in an explosive surrendering of flesh before they separated sligh
tly and stared into each other's eyes.

"
Soloman." She grasped his hand resting firmly on her neck. "Please get Amy back for me ..."

He nodded hard. "I'm going to get her back."

"And then?"

His face went cold.

"Then I'm gonna kill him."

***

Moving quickly, hurling ancient documents that held inestimable value haphazardly to the cement floor, Aveling and Father Barth flew through the vault of the Secret Archives.

"This hidden place must be of copper and granite? And old, yes?" Barth hesitated with a document in his hand.

"It must be ancient!" Aveling moved with eyes that darted from shelf to shelf. "And yes! It must be of granite! It must be located by the sea. It will not be in this country." He paused at a document, tossed it. "I feel it will be in northern England, though there is no way to know for certain. But that is the ancient land of Druidic power and this spell is somehow linked to Samhain, so there must be a connection."

"Perhaps somewhere in Flamborough or Hunstanton?"

"
No
!" Aveling's emotions suddenly flared. "Those coasts are recent additions to the country and devoid of metal! They are products of glacial waste. No, this place will be older and stronger. It could possibly be upon an isolated coast of Northumberland."

"Of course!" responded Barth, caught up.

Moving fast, their concentration and keenness of mind making lies of their years, they went through the documents like lightning as the Librarian Superior checked off each deed thrown, barely able to search the list and find it before he was fiercely hurled another.

***

"I need weapons, Marcelle."

Soloman
's tone indicated that he was not in any mood for complications. He wanted weapons, he wanted them now, and he wasn't taking any crap about the difficulties of obtaining them.

Concentrating, Marcelle looked about, as if he had never confronted
the problem. He studied it a long time before he whispered, "It ... ah, we've never had to obtain weapons, Soloman. That could present difficult problems that, uh ... Perhaps I could—"

"
Your people don’t have access to weapons?" Soloman was incredulous. "You've got jets and boats and all the money in the world and you don't have any access to weapons?"

"Weapons, ah, are not our specialty," Marcelle said frankly, gazing
away. "But I am certain that I can get you some weapons if we can only ... find a way to—"

"Damn, Marcelle! I don't have time for this!"

Soloman picked up the phone and dialed the Armory at Fort Bragg, asking for Chatwell. He gave them an on-the-spot yarn about being an AD with the FBI, about wanting recommendations for new 9-mm semi-autos. Then there was a suspiciously long pause, a faint click, and Chatwell came on.

"This is Sergeant Chatwell."

Soloman suspected that the line wasn't secure.

"Chatwell, it's Colonel
Soloman."

An unemotional pause. "Yes, sir?"

Soloman hadn't been completely certain until he heard the voice: "Look, Chatwell, I know now that you're under base arrest because they figured I'd be pulling something like this, so this isn't for you. It's for them!" He released some long-withheld anger, counting seconds against a trace. "You can't stop me! You couldn't stop me before and you can't stop me now!"

He hung up, turned to Marcelle. "Well
..." He paused a moment. "Looks like I'll have to do it myself."

"We don't have much time,
Soloman."

Soloman
moved for the door.

"I'm in a killing mode, Marcelle. I don't need much time."

***

Archette expected a more laudatory reception at the Long Island manor, for
Soloman had been effectively eliminated, Cain had been flown to England with the child, and The Circle had accompanied him for protection. He did not understand the frown on Lazarus's face.

Staring down at the ancient table, concentrating, the white-haired man had not moved. His fingers rested on a Rune card that had been there when Archette entered. It lay face-up amidst burning black candles and Lazarus had not taken his eyes from it, nor from three others laid in a tight square.

"Lazarus?" Archette ventured, made extremely cautious by the poised concentration. "Did you hear my words?"

"I understand your words, and I understand more," Lazarus murmured, pausing. "Tell me, Archette. You said that Colonel
Soloman has been eliminated. That is good. I commend you for your faithfulness. But tell me, what of this priest?"

"The priest?"

"Yes. This Jesuit priest. Has he also been eliminated?"

"I don't understand, Lazarus. The priest was merely an adviser to
Soloman. Soloman alone had the resources for interfering with our dreams. The priest ... he is only a priest."

Lazarus shook his head as if the statement did not merit his attention. His mouth tightened as he cryptically turned a card on the table for Archette to see. "
Do you understand this card?" he asked quietly.

Archette stepped forward, staring down. He saw four cards laid face-up, each pointing in a different direction; north, south, east, and west. They were Disruption, Warrior, Flow, and Movement. Archette
did not know how to interpret them, and managed, "Perhaps you should explain, Lazarus. I do not read the Runes."

"Neither does our Lord," Lazarus said. "Runes have no more association with his power than Tarot reading or the interpretation of stars. But sometimes ... they reveal truth."

"What do you mean?" Archette asked.

"This"—Lazarus lowered his face toward Disruption—"reveals the release of elemental and chaotic forces on the Earth. It signifies the archetypal mind
strong beyond measure. Then, there is Warrior. It is a spiritual symbol. It falls to the opposite of Disruption." He frowned. "Then there is Flow, which signifies that a great change is about to occur. And to the North, standing upright, there is ...
Movement
."

"I am not familiar with this card."

Lazarus answered slowly with a scowl. "When Movement stands upright in the North it is the most powerful of all Runes. It means that a great and mighty power is present – a power that nourishes and heals. It means that a force beyond any other ... has arisen to enter the fight."

Archette shook his head, perceiving. "But if you had seen his eyes, Lazarus, then you would know! He can't be defeated! Nothing can defeat him! It is like looking into the eyes of God!"

With a faint trembling Lazarus turned Movement face down.

"There is another," he said somberly.

* * *

C
HAPTER 22

It was midnight and Soloman crouched low on the roof of a building on East 83
rd
Street in New York City, watching as the proprietor closed the NYC Gun Shop.

Soloman
waited one minute before he moved.

In seconds he reached the fire escape and descended, moving fast to slide down the ladder and hit the ground hard. Roving eyes alert to everything and everyone, he walked slowly up the alley and across
the street. Then he strolled down the adjoining alley where he moved behind the gun shop, checking for tramps or vagrants or witnesses. But there was only an old wino collapsed in a cardboard box.

Soloman
moved past him without a sound, knowing that no plan was perfect but not wanting to hurt anyone. In seconds he was at the back door and took a small grappling hook that he'd bought from a military surplus store. He whirled it and threw high and then he was climbing, gaining the roof, staying low. He pulled the rope up behind him, just as he'd been trained to do.

He drew the Cold Steel tanto, the only weapon he'd managed to retain during the long conflict, and moved behind the heating unit to stab the tarmac savagely. He drove the quarter-inch-thick blade through the tar and drew it hard, carving a line. Then he hit it over and over and finally reached the wood. At that, he took out the small saw and with meticulous concentration cut a hole in the roof.

For certain, he knew without even looking that the gun shop was wired to the hilt. All of them were. It would have door alarms and window vibration alarms and motion detectors and everything else that high-tech security could provide. But Soloman knew there was always a way.

He blinked sweat from his eyes, breathless, refusing to surrender to the exhausting expenditure of physical strength required for the task. Finally, he managed to cut a narrow manhole. He gazed down at pink insulation and a layer of board beneath, the ceiling.

Without hesitation he slid into the hole, enduring the stinging sensation, out of sight. Then, turning on a small flashlight, he turned in the tightness and crawled until he found where the electrical units were tied into the breaker box, which was located downstairs.

Now for the difficult part.

He studied the wires until he found one of the phone lines, lines normally used for alarms. He couldn't reach the alarm system itself because it was inside the building, but he could reach this.

He took out the tanto and placed the wire against a two-by-four, cutting it as the alarm hit hard. With a sigh
Soloman bowed his head, knowing this was the moment that would determine the rest of his life. If he failed in this, he would be in prison forever. Federal authorities, already afraid of him, would come up with anything it took to keep him behind bars.

He waited for a sweating, trembling twenty minutes until he heard
voices outside the building. But he understood cops just as well as he understood alarms. He knew that no cop was going to waste energy crawling on top of a building to see if someone had cut a hole in the roof.

They answered twenty of these a night and most of them were triggered
by wind-rattled windows or punks throwing rocks.

After another ten minutes, with no lights shining through the hole in
the tarmac, Soloman knew he was safe. They had checked the building and found it secure. There were no windows broken, the doors were shut tight, the fire escape was high, and there was no damage visible. NYPD had decided that everything was locked down. Checking the roof was beyond the pale for cops who simply wanted to get to the end of their shift in one piece.

Soloman
knew he'd have less than two minutes after he hit the floor to find what he needed. The motion detectors inside would find him to set off a second alarm on an alternate phone line so he'd have to be in and out, forgetting ammunition if he was short on time. But that was tolerable. He could pick up ammunition later, if necessary.

First and foremost, he'd have to find the weapons he needed to take Cain to the ground. Then he'd have to make it to the LTD and clear the area before a pissed-off NYPD cop checked the alarm a second time.

He moved on it.

With a violent move he kicked out the plaster ceiling and descended hard, landing on a display case that shattered spectacularly at the impact, and then he was rolling, frantically trying to avoid splintered glass. But as he gained his feet he saw blood. He didn't know where he was cut but knew by feel that it wasn't serious. Breathing hard, he scanned the wall and saw instantly what he needed.

A Bennelli .10-gauge shotgun was displayed, locked by a steel cord that ran down the wall. Good enough. Soloman glared at the glass display case and his eyes locked on the large-caliber handguns.

He identified a .50-caliber Grizzly semiautomatic, one of the most powerful handguns in the world. Instan
tly he shattered the case, removing it. Then he leaped over the counter and placed the tanto against the steel cord that secured the shotguns, pressing down with desperate strength.

There was a long straining moment and
Soloman watched steel thread severed by steel thread until the cord parted. He immediately lifted the Bennelli and took five seconds to find two boxes of .50-caliber ammunition and .10-gauge double-ought buckshot from behind the counter, a dozen magazines. He threw all of it in a duffle bag and leaped over the case, angling fast for the display of black powder.

He moved fast, leaping the counter again. And in another moment he'd loaded everything he needed and was at the front door, forsaking stealth. He only had thirty seconds befo
re police arrived, using the dependable two-minute time limit.

As he reached the exit he viciously kicked a chair through the glass, smashing the shattering white shards outward in a shower of splinters that sent people screaming down the street. Then he was in the open, not caring about identification as he ran quickly toward the LTD. They would find him in the end, he knew. But by then it wouldn't matter. He hurled everything into the backseat and fired the engine to break into traffic.

Aflame with stress, his hands gripped the wheel with crushing strength. But with maddening control he contained a silent roar until he finally brought it down again, settling into a sweating calm as he reached a side street, avoiding as much traffic as possible.

And saw Cain before him.

Not there . . .

"C'mon,"
Soloman whispered. "Let's finish this thing."

***

His face was deathly pale, his eyes like ice.

Skin stretched across a haggard face made him seem more dead than alive in the darkness. Reveren
tly, he removed the golden pentacle from his neck, laying it to rest on an obsidian disk holding a black candle.

The pentacle was large and intricately detailed with blazing white stars and dark clouds, haloed by a hauntingly cold night. He clasped his hands before it a moment, bending his head in prayer. Then he reached up to remove the great black cloak, settling it nea
tly.

In seconds, standing silen
tly inside the magnificent Manhattan apartment, he once more resembled the man he seemed to be to the world, except on these nights of dark ritual, of glory. Then, last, he removed his soft leather boots, carefully pouring dirt from within them into a canister, for a sorcerer must always be in contact with the Earth in order to evoke a spell.

As he turned, he saw the gigantic figure seated behind him. Heart skipping, he began a wild movement to run and heard a star
tled shout erupt from his own mouth. But the figure did not move, made no effort to attack. And in a strange, spectral passage of time, no words were spoken. Each held his place in the silent darkness.

In the voice of a god, the giant spoke.

"Forgive me, Kano," he rumbled. "But I have need of you."

A gasp exploded from Kano and his hands began to tremble violen
tly. He did not know what to believe or not to believe. His breath came in quick pulls as he staggered. He swallowed, staring and shaking.

"I—I—I
... I am here," he gasped.

"Yes," the giant growled, seemingly pleased, "of course you are."
With terrifying strength he rose and came slowly closer. "You have always been here for me."

Kano fought to stay on his feet, glaring as the giant emerged from
shadow. He had been warned, but he had doubted; it was too fantastic.

Yet now, and with a single glance, he knew—God.

He
had come.

He had come to
him
and had chosen
him
as his servant! But still, somehow, it seemed surreal and Kano made a visible effort to still the trembling in his hands and knees.

"There is no reason for fear," the man said tenderly. "I am your master
, and you have served me well – as I have served you."

Kano almost collapsed from shock but with volcanic speed the man instan
tly snatched him by the shoulders, supporting him with iron strength. He held him patiently until Kano reached up to feel the majestic might of those titanic arms, the hard firmness of the flesh.

It was real. It was real
... real ... real ...

T
he Master
. . .

"I—" Kano swallowed hollowly. "I am here, Lord."

"And yet you still do not know what to believe." He smiled and nodded gently. "There is no reason for fear." The Lord released him and walked slowly to the pentacle resting on the obsidian altar: "Yes, the Unknowable. One of my treasured Runes, for it portends death, enlivening the deepest of human fears."

"Is it
really you?" Kano staggered. "Is it really you?"

The man laughed. "Do you wish to know what I have seen, Kano?"

"Of course, Lord! I wish to know all that you know!"

Eyes moving from the pentacle, the man reached down and picked up a stack of Rune cards, tossing one of them casually onto the altar as he spoke. "
Krist waes on rodi, hwethrae ther fusae fearran kwomu, aththilae til anum ic thaet biheald
."

Kano hesitated. "I ... I
know
this
! I have heard it before! It is from the, uh, the ..."

"
'The Dream of the Rood
,'" the Lord said. "From one who was there to watch the Nazarene die." His frown was so terrible that an un-controllable fear made Kano step back.

"Don't be afraid, Kano," he said without threat. "I will not harm you. No, certainly not you. For you have served me well, and now I need even more of your loyal assistance."

Kano found the strength to walk forward. "Anything, Lord. I will do anything you demand."

"As you always have." The Lord laughed, suddenly focused. "I will tell you what must be done. You will write everything down. We must begin tonight. And by tomorrow I will be inside those granite walls to sit upon my throne ... once more."

Kano searched for materials and saw the card that the man had tossed upon the altar: an image of three monolithic slabs as nobly proportioned as Stonehenge. Two stood upright, the other lay across them, a lintel. Kano knew the meaning, glanced up to see the man scowling.

"Gateway," the Lord said, and after a moment broke himself from the trance. He released a heavy sigh that hinted of herculean power and asked, "Is The Circle in place?"

"The Circle, Lord?"

"Yes, Kano. The Circle. Those who protect The Family. Those who protect us from our enemies."

"Of course, Lord! They are always in place!"

"Good," the Lord replied. "Tell them to come to me tonight. They must accompany us to the
Castle of Calistro in England which is located beside the cliffs of Lifanis. Archette is making preparations for the flight."

Kano acquiesced.

"Take down my instructions," the Lord said as blood gleamed in his eyes; blood or revenge. "A very powerful enemy has already cost me too much time. And I must prepare for him."

Kano's eyes widened; he could not imagine. "But
... but
who
could be your enemy, my Lord?"

The Lord frowned.

"The son of David," he said.

***

Waves crashed behind him, and Ben stared coldly. He had found the address easily enough. It was a truly titanic mansion located behind the shore near Glen Cove, directly beside icy cold Long Island Sound. It was probably fifty-thousand square feet. Four-storied with sweeping picture windows and set on a fifty-acre sandlot, it was surrounded by a spiked fence.

After advising the chopper pilot to set down at Nassau, Ben had
rented a car under a false identification. Then he'd found a discreet location where he could watch unobserved. It was an abandoned, sea-broken shell of a store located almost a half mile away, and he was forced to use binoculars. And although he doubted that anyone would disturb him, he was prepared to flash his phony identification again.